


Wild

by kat99999



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gen, M/M, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat99999/pseuds/kat99999
Summary: Six months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter just wants to be alone. Being around his friends, being around a world with so much blood still on his hands, Harry decides it is time to find pastures new - just for now. Where better to find himself than a crappy tired old hotel in South London?Draco Malfoy is still reeling - though sort of peacefully - from the death of his father. Offered up a get-out clause by his mother, Draco heads to their family home in South London, to discover what freedom and a life post-Hogwarts, post-Voldemort, post-everything, really means.It all starts with a Tesco, but where will it end?Post Deathly Hallows AU, still very much a WIP, almost certainly a Harry/Draco story at heart.





	Wild

There was a lightbulb on the screen, and a sentence that followed: _tell me what you want me to do._

Harry was flustered, flustered to read something so clearly indicative of his own lack of clarity. Even the computer he was using was asking questions too complicated for his current state of mind.

He looked around the Internet café that he was sat in, a cheap polystyrene cup of tea in front of him and his fingers hovering over the once familiar keys that he’d long forgotten how to use, really. They seemed to be in a completely random, nonsensical order.

He closed the document he’d opened, the cursor still blinking at him in the back corner of his eye, like a glowing light, or a small headache. 

It was Wednesday, and it was mild for September, and his grey hoodie felt too warm for a brief moment. He looked at the date on the computer screen: it had been two months since he had left Hogwarts. Well, technically he supposed his school life had ended much earlier, more than a year ago, but it hadn’t felt final until his boots crunched Muggle ground properly, after – after it was all said and done.

Harry jerked his chair back from the computer suddenly, surprisingly himself and a few disgruntled people around him who huffed from their own laptops. He cleared his throat awkwardly, announcing his existence to – nobody. Nobody was around that knew him.

_Tell me what you want to do._

He had meant to write some sort of letter, to Hermione, not Ron, who wouldn’t have understood what a printed letter would look like, and wasn’t likely to be near any sort of Muggle mail anyway. Ron would also be more likely to be very, very angry. As it turned out, Harry hadn’t really known what to say anyway. This was proving to be a regular problem.

It had been two months since they had all left Hogwarts, and almost as much time had passed since they’d spoken. Harry didn’t really know what he was doing now. Just coasting. Just- having silent conversations with inanimate objects.

_Tell me what you want to do._

_I don’t fucking_ know _, do I?_ Harry snapped back angrily, in his head, and scowled for good measure. Kicked his toe at the underside of the desk once. It hurt, and he scowled again.

When the war was over, and Voldemort had – gone, Harry was inundated with offers, options, interested parties wanting to take him into their teams, give him a job straight out of school, adopt golden boy Harry Potter. It had been Hermione who’d suggested he might take some time to rest, to think about what his life might look like now that he had left school and murdered the most evil wizard in history, taking a few people down with him. Lots of blood on Harry Potter’s hands to smear about if he wasn’t careful.

Well, those hadn’t quite been her words. Harry had since shifted them somewhat in his mind.

So he had taken some time out. The day afterwards, back at the Weasleys mad house, he’d slept late, skipped breakfast; voluntary starvation always seemed more of a rebellion now he was no longer eleven – and taken a long hot shower before walking out the door with just his wand and a bag of money.  He hadn’t been back since.

No note. Hence the Internet café.

No plan. Hence the Wednesday afternoon with nothing to do.

No companions. Hence – the lost feeling.

But, as Harry now found, he still couldn’t write a note, and he still couldn’t find a way to make a plan that fit in his head like clicking a key in a door, and he still couldn’t find a way to want to be near a single person who knew him.

He had left the wizarding world pretty soon afterwards, to his own surprise. He still did magic, though it made his stomach churn every time. He still thought about those things all the time, how really it would be safe for him to be there now, and probably easier and certainly cheaper. He was living in a hotel room, a shitty one at that, in South London. He’d chosen the noisiest place he could find, so many people and so much bustle that it drowned out the noise in his head. Most of the time.

Now he shut down the machine, brushed his fingers absently over the wooden desk it sat on and narrowly avoided a splinter.

“Ow,” he muttered, before he got up and walked out of his third Internet café that week.

It was the third time he hadn’t been able to figure out what to say. So he left. Again.

*

On his way back to his hotel – ironically next to a pub called The Small and Charming – Harry remembered he should be probably eat something. He realised how much meals had become a laziness at school, and with the Weasleys and friends – just something that happened because other people were doing it. On his own he didn’t really get all that hungry.

It was pissing with rain anyway, so he pulled his hood up and went straight to the second biggest supermarket nearby. He could grab something readymade that wouldn’t mean disturbing the hotel staff – they didn’t like that. If he found himself in the right mood while shopping, he might get some wine

He’d found a bit of enjoyment in buying the most expensive bottles, and drinking it slowly over the course of a night or two. It probably would have been nicer in an actual glass, but there was something pretty fucking depressing about sitting alone in a busy bar. So the hotel’s provided offering would have to do. It still tasted good. And it helped him sleep on the nights when the nightmares were bad.

He didn’t really have that many now, Harry mused, as he made his way from paused down the alcohol aisle. Just once or twice in the past few weeks. It was possible that they were starting to ease off.

Harry reached for a bottle just as the child screamed. It fell out of his hands immediately, spraying a violent gush of deep red onto the floor. All Harry could do was stare at it.

“Fuck, are you okay?” There was a voice, the quick concern of a stranger – though a bit of a pottymouthed one, Harry acknowledged, somewhere in the midst of a black tunnel, or a white out, or – he wasn’t sure.

“You’re shaking,” said the voice, and Harry could tell it was a guy, and then confirmed when a strong hand grabbed his wrist. It burned a familiar, kinetic response from him  - he’d had some good nights with strong hands and firm grips. He felt himself breathe out, slowly but heavily. “You okay?”

Harry closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them, and in a flash of green he saw –

“Fuck, Malfoy?”

If he hadn’t been going to throw up before, he might now. He jerked and his hood dropped over his forehead a bit more, and he shoved it away with his free hand. He was all sweaty.

“Oh good bloody lord,” was the response he got, and the brief concern Harry had noted was replaced by a thoroughly unfriendly glower, though his wrist was still firmly held onto. “What are you doing here?”

Harry stuttered, feeling confident it was with indignation rather than the weird – blackouty thing that had just happened. “What am I doing here? What are you –“

He stopped as a member of the supermarket staff came over with a huge wad of paper towel and sign with a big red exclamation point, and below that small type that read ‘Slippery surface. Please avoid’. Harry felt it was some of the better advice he’d had in his life recently.

_No problem. I’m out of here._

And there was mentally talking to signs again.

He stood awkwardly, shaking his hand so Malfoy would Get Off him, until the attendant was done. She glared at both of the young men before walking back to her station, muttering something about ‘fucking teenagers’ as she did.

“Hardly teenagers,” Malfoy humphed, his voice as crisp and clear as ever, in a slightly lower register than Harry was used to hearing. “I’m eighteen.”

“Well done,” Harry said dryly.

“Oh fuck off.” There was a beat. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing in Tesco, Potter? Apart from breaking things.”

“It fell out of my hand,” Harry snapped, then made a bit of a noise meant to indicate annoyance. “What am _I_ doing here? How do you even know what a fucking _Tesco_ is, Malfoy? Why-“ He stopped then. “Do you know what? I don’t even care.”

Malfoy was quiet for a beat, and it was when Harry started to walk away from the aisle – he’d buy wine another night – that he said, raising his voice slightly, “I’m actually living nearby. Hogwarts isn’t the only place that magical people live you know.”

Harry stopped at that. He turned back to look at Malfoy with a set frown. “That doesn’t explain why you’re in Tesco.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I like gin.”

“Right. Never mind.” Harry turned away again. “Have a nice life.”

It was weird, when Malfoy grabbed his wrist again. That – feeling returned, that annoyingly instinctive thing that young horny adults can’t seem to shake, Harry had learned. Being eighteen was almost worse than when he was thirteen and had learned how to masturbate. When he wasn’t thinking about death, he was thinking about sex. About fucking, about being fucked, about blow jobs and rimjobs and tongues and sweat and – ugh.

Apparently if he hadn’t got laid for a month, even someone touching his wrist stopped in his tracks.

Even _Malfoy_.

He should have killed himself when he had the chance, Harry thought dully, with a smirk.

“Harry- Potter,” Malfoy adjusted, “are you alright?”

“Mm,” Harry murmured non-committally. “Yeah.” He rethought that. “Well, I’ve been better. Got wine all over my fucking hoodie.”

“At least they’re not making you pay for it.”

Harry made a face at this, saying quickly, “I paid for the hoodie. I have money, you know.”

Then he realised that’s not what Malfoy had meant. He shook his head again to clear it. When he looked back, Malfoy was frowning thoughtfully.

At first, he’d misjudged how much Wizard money would translate into enough to get him by. The first couple of days back in Muggle London he’d eaten – literally eaten – his whole budget. Having to go back into Gringotts after less than half a week had completely thrown Harry off, made him question his decision to leave altogether. Somehow it felt easier to just given up and lay on the floor of the bank and let them come and get him.

Instead though, he’d taken out every penny he’d own, converted it at an illegal shop in Nocturne Alley, and got the fuck out of there.

“Potter,” Malfoy said now, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Please will you let me buy you a drink? You look – well, frankly you look like you just saw a dead person.”

Harry paused, and thought, _I did_.

Out loud he said, without much enthusiasm, “Sure. Why not.”

They left together the way he had come in alone, and Harry ignored it when Malfoy glanced sideways at him as the sun hit them outside.

*

Harry dreamed about dead people, all the time. Well, not all the time he supposed, because the disruptive nights were becoming fewer, but when he did dream, it was about people who had died. Given how many people who knew who had died, he supposed he shouldn’t find this that spectacular.

On the worst nights, right at the beginning when he was still at The Burrow, the people all conjoined into one dream. The second night after the battle was over he dreamed of Remus, and Fred, and Sirius, and then his parents joined in the fun too. And they weren’t alive in the dream, or haunting him. They were dead bodies. That night, he jolted awake at 4am and had to run to the bathroom to throw up everything he had inside him. He’d been too terrified to go back to sleep, and that is when he’d decided, barely conscious, that he needed to be alone. He didn’t know how long for, but he needed to be alone.

He'd dreamed of people who hadn’t died, but in his sleep they were dead. Malfoy had made a cameo in a particularly searing dream about Slytherins, and Voldemort, his pale face turned grey, his lean body limp and lifeless.

He didn’t know what the dreams meant, but they were fucking awful.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, with some agitation, and Harry blinked back to reality at the bar in a pub not far from Tesco. They’d walked here in silence, and Harry hadn’t quite shaken his distraction. He took the wine glass that he was being handed, full to the brim with deep velvety dark wine. “Careful this time. That’s not cheap.”

Harry’s lip quirked up in an attempt at a smile, and he glanced down before looking back to meet Malfoy’s eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured, not quite sure what for, but added, “There’s wine on your trainers. They’re white.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Eh, forget about it. Let’s grab a seat shall we.”

It wasn’t a request, so Harry did as he was told and followed the other man to a table in the far corner of the small pub, which was pretty much deserted apart from them. Harry supposed that at 4.30pm on a Wednesday, they had at least a half hour before the after work crowd started flooding in.

“So.”

Harry frowned. “What?”

“So… Muggle London, hey,” Draco started, conversationally. Harry couldn’t figure out if it was weird that he was being relatively friendly, or if Harry was just out of touch with being around people full stop. “...why?”

“Why what?” Harry’s frown deepened.

“Well – why are you _here_?”

Harry made a face. “Why am _I_ here?”

Draco nodded, patiently, which made Harry want to thump him.

“Why am I here? Why are _you_ here? You’re literally the last person I thought I would have to hide-“ He paused, then righted himself. “-see. The last person I thought I’d see. Here. Around here.”

This earned him a long, unconvinced stare from the boy sitting opposite him, who, instead of passing comment it seemed, took a sip of his drink instead. Harry noticed he wasn’t drinking wine.

Draco must have noticed him noticing. “Don’t drink,” he said simply. “Never saw the point of it. Makes me drowsy.”

“That’s the good bit,” Harry pointed out with a small smile.

“I like staying sharp,” Malfoy shrugged. Then he paused, and asked quite frankly, “So, what exactly is wrong with you?” The way he said it irked Harry. Like he actually might care or mind or be interested beyond a sick fascination.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with me,” he replied instinctively, and took a sip of his wine. It tasted rich and warming. “I just dropped something.”

Malfoy made a face. “Yeah, okay. You just dropped something and nearly passed out and you’re on your own in the middle of the week in the middle of Muggle London.”

“I…” Harry paused. “Well. I don’t know.” When Malfoy just stared at him as though to say, _and?_ , Harry faltered. “Look, I’m just- I’m not really around people much at the moment. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything, I just want to – check you’re not having a total mind melt.”

Harry shrugged again, and remained sullenly quiet.

They sat that way for a few moments, in relative silence only broken by Malfoy swirling the ice around in his glass of – well, Harry supposed it was bloody water. Fizzy bloody water.

After another extended lack of volume, Harry remarked, “I always pegged you for a firewhisky sort of person.” This elicited a raise of one eyebrow and a shrug. “It’s kind of an evil drink.”

This made Malfoy laugh. “An evil drink to match an evil bastard, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not evil,” Malfoy said calmly, with a shake of his head. “My father, maybe. But I’m pretty- regular.”

“You helped them ki-“ Harry started, angrily, pitching forward in his seat a bit and causing the bartender to look over, and he stopped himself, sat back again, and hissed, “You’re not fucking regular, Malfoy. You’re as bad as the rest of them.”

Another raised eyebrow. “Then why are you sitting here?”

“You made me.”

“Fine, I made you. So go home. Go and find your nice non-evil pals.” Malfoy paused, and added calmly, in a way that could, and did, make Harry’s blood boil, “Only I don’t see them around.”

They’d gotten good at this game over the last seven years, knowing exactly how to push one another’s buttons, and it seemed that even this act of apparent good intention, of Malfoy removing Harry from a shitty situation and trying to calm him, could only last so long. It was as though Malfoy wanted the only thing to upset Harry to be him on his own terms. Typical.

Harry could feel the blood rush away from his face, his skin pallid and revealing, even to himself. He couldn’t think about Ron and Hermione at all, it seemed, without his body betraying that he missed them. But he couldn’t miss them. It was important that he didn’t.

Eventually he replied, “They’re not around. Does that matter?”

“I suppose not.” Malfoy drank down the last of his water and Harry took that as a cue that they were done, and matched him by doing the same to his half-full glass of wine. “Well, I’d say you’ve changed a bit since I last saw you.”

Harry snapped, “I don’t want to think about the last time I saw you.”

Running away from a war battle, with his stupid fucking rich fucking evil parents.

Malfoy sighed. “Let me walk you back to – wherever it is you’re going.”

“Oh Merlin,” Harry hmphed, by force of habit, feeling a bit sick again. Probably drinking the wine so fast. “I can get myself back home thanks.” When Malfoy made that Face again, he said, “Look, it’s down the road. I’m staying at the Comfort Inn, okay? Literally about ten steps away. I can manage on my own.”

“Oh.”

“ _What_ , Malfoy?”

There was a beat that passed. “No, nothing. Are you sure you’re okay, Potter?”

“For the last time, yes.” Harry felt some of the blood return to his brain, and let a breath leave him slowly. He started to stand from the uncomfortable wooden chair. “This has been – a real treat, Malfoy. Thanks for the wine. Good luck being regular, whatever that means.”

Draco stood too, and close together Harry could see that the other boy was a bit taller, actually. He probably had stacked shoes on, the great poof. Not that he could talk, he supposed. He caught Malfoy’s eyes, slate grey and clear and sharp, held them for one beat too long, then forced himself to look anywhere else.

“See you later, Harry,” Draco said, quietly, and Harry walked out, taking great care to shove his shoulder against the other boy’s, just a bit, just to prove they lined up.

*

It had been dark for hours before Harry even tried to settle in. He’d been laying on the stiff hotel mattress for awhile and he couldn’t shake – something. He didn’t feel upset, like he had sometimes since, or angry even, like he had often since. He felt – weird. He didn’t want to say he felt nostalgic for the likes of Draco Malfoy but… something shifted in his chest.

It felt weird.

He closed his eyes for a long a time. He had a wank, thinking of nothing in particular. He thought a bit about how it must be to feel regular.

He fell asleep before it got light out, and dreamed of strange silhouettes and fire.

*

He woke up to the sound of the hotel phone ringing, and groaned. It stopped making noise, which was pleasing, and he rolled over. When his face pressed into the pillow, it started again, and he made a louder noise of displeasure.

 

Reaching out to pick it up – it was right by the fucking bed – he mumbled,  “Yeah?”

A perky voice on the other end, some stupid girl who probably thought it was attractive – well, good lucky with that working on Harry – said, “Morning Mr Potter. We had a request for a wake up call at nine thirty.”

Harry woke up a bit more at this. “Er, no you didn’t.”

“This is Room 24, isn’t it. We have a note for a wake up call at nine thirty to give you a note.”

“You have a note to give me a note?” Harry breathed out, counted to ten twice and tried to picture something calming. Hermione had taught him this technique once, saying he was quick to lose his temper most of the time and it wouldn’t help him in a war.

The girl giggled. Harry rolled his eyes at nobody. “Yes, Mr Potter. If you’d like to pop down to reception to collect it, we have a parcel here too.”

This made him tense up. “A parcel?”

“That’s right. Would you like it sent up instead?”

“Er… no. That’s okay. I’ll be down in a bit.”

Harry hung up without waiting for a response. He felt on red alert immediately, and when there was a rush of noise outside and his room shook slightly, his heart rate raced right up.

It was just a bus going by.

He pushed out a hard breath. He was going to kill himself if he kept up this level of anxiety at the smallest of things. It wasn’t really sustainable, he realized, for the first time.

The water pressure was shit in the Comfort Inn, so Harry made the water almost scalding hot, tried to wash out some of the demons.

*

Harry made his way down to reception a little after ten, and as he walked into the sunstream that was the lobby today – September was proving to be a beautiful end to Summer – he realized that he hadn’t been ready to face the day so early in awhile. He also hadn’t slept so well in awhile, or had such empty, peaceful dreams.

“Morning!” tinkled the voice he’d over the phone, attached to an admittedly beautiful young blonde receptionist. Harry forced a weak smile, and tried to look as thought he meant it. The receptionist beamed back. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. I mean- yes, please.” Harry cleared his throat a bit. “I have a parcel?” He hadn’t meant to make it sound like a question, but Smiley on the other side of the desk didn’t seem to mind. “You er, called before. About a note. And a parcel.”

Smiley smiled again. Her cheeks were adorned with coral streaks, Harry noticed, and avoided looking at them. Women did weird things to themselves to look pretty, and he couldn’t much see the point. The only girls he’d spent a lot of time with were Hermione and Ginny, and they both looked great as they were ,most of the time.

As the receptionist went to the back room to find whatever it was that was for him, Harry turned to look outside again. The street was already lively with people, likely on their way to morning meetings, or off to meet friends, or run errands. Harry found himself wishing he had something to _do_.

He'd spent the last couple of months avoiding committing to any single situation. Just floating. Not thinking. Not doing. And now – he wasn’t sure how to fill the time until he went back to bed.

“Here we go!” came the enthusiastic voice of Smiley, holding out an envelope and a small little box. “A nice blonde chap dropped this off last night. He said we should wake you if you hadn’t collected it by mid-morning.” She glowed as she handed it over.

Harry frowned as he took it. Malfoy? He ran a finger over the envelope, slowly, lost in his own mind for a while.

He was interrupted by a cheerful, “Sir?”

“Sorry,” Harry said automatically. “Yeah, this is – fine. Thanks.” He then added, without thinking, “You seem in a good mood.”

Smiley brightened visibly, and Harry thought generously that the blush of her face did suit her well, maybe. “Oh! Well, I am.” She grinned, and leaned in a bit to tell him, “My boyfriend proposed last night. Look!” And she held out her left hand, a rather small diamond glinting on her second finger. “He wanted me to take the day off work, but we’ve got a wedding to pay for and- anyway, we’re going to have dinner later. My boss even said I could leave a bit early! That’s so sweet of you to notice.”

Harry, ignoring a dull ache, forced a proper smile. “That’s great news. Congratulations. I’ll er- let you get on. Have a good… day. Dinner. Both.” He grimaced. He was even worse at talking to people than he was before he became a recluse, apparently.

“Thanks!” The receptionist waved him out of the room, and Harry thought he caught sight of her looking at her hand again even.

He looked at his own hands, and waited until he got outside and onto a quieter bit of the street to open the note. It was written in neat cursive, and said, _Red wine is for girls._ Below was an address that Harry could vaguely map in his head as being about a half an hour by foot from the Comfort Inn. It was signed off _DM_ , and Harry smirked, and thought, _pretentious bastard._

In the box there was a small bottle of firewhiskey. Harry’s smirk broadened, and he tucked the miniature into his back pocket.

He threw the small box in the nearest bin, and started walking.


End file.
